A Ladder to the Sky

A leaf falls to the ground, a fig rots
into purple. Cicadas rub their wings
as sparrows twitch and fly to a rooftop.
On the soil a grasshopper, its hind legs tall
like a ladder to the sky. This morning
I found it at the front door,
lost on our brown mat. I clasped
my hands over it, felt it
throw itself inside the dark,
and finally, exhausted, let go.
I took it, slowly, to a garden bed,
opened my hands to the earth.
It hopped onto the ground
and stood at peace, in its stillness,
with its hind legs tall like a ladder,
like a ladder to the sky.

Passing Fields 

As we wait for the bus
another train passes over the bridge,
and the light fades.
We talk to a young man, Dom, 
board the empty bus.
The aisle fills with walking sticks,
bags of groceries and a pram.
We pass fields of yellow flowers,
rooks and ploughed earth.
Dom speaks of his chronic fatigue.    
We tell him about our travels,
how we found a place that is quiet,
where we will return next year.
There is a studio downstairs
that is not expensive,
that would suit him to rest and write.
When we finally look out the window
the fields have gone,
and we are the last three left on the bus.
We didn’t notice anyone leave.
It is as if we missed our deaths,
passed into another world.
A crow caws on a roof.
When the bus stops we make our own way
into the mist.  

A Book of Recipes

In the kitchen there is only room for two;
the small window looks out to a lone tree,
and our neighbour’s flat. Salt covers the glass: sea mist
off the nearby cliffs, carried on fog.

Mum leaves lentils soaking overnight
to make falafel. It takes all morning to prepare.
Dad stores tools under the kitchen sink:
hammers, saws. He paints old coffee jars,
keeps spices in them.

Money is short, but not for spice.
We buy them whole. Cumin, cloves, black pepper.
I grind the seeds in a handmill,
while my sister runs away from home. 

It doesn’t help that mum and dad argue;
you can hear them down the street.

Dad writes poems on scraps of paper, bus tickets,
receipts; he hides them as bookmarks.
He isn’t happy when I find them,
pretends they aren’t important to him.

Mum mixes tahini and lemon juice,
prepares lunch from a tattered book of recipes,
the food dad’s mother cooked in Egypt.
Dad pokes his head into the kitchen,
makes fun of mum.  

I’m on the balcony at the barbeque,
flapping a piece of cardboard over coal.
Sometimes I hear mum laugh.
I don’t remember seeing them in love;
they were when they met.